


Advice for the Momentarily Blinded

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-14
Updated: 2005-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:36:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the day before Remus' nineteenth birthday, and Sirius is at an utter gift-giving loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advice for the Momentarily Blinded

The day before Remus Lupin's nineteenth birthday, Sirius Black had an epiphany. The epiphany – striking as it did while he was half under the bed, scrabbling for his second-favourite boot with fingers stained purple from the previous night's tulle incident – seized him by his mental balls and twisted sharply, causing one Black head to collide with the underside of one Black bed, and one patented string of Black curses to blister the varnish from the floorboards. Gingerly sliding out from beneath his antique, cast-iron bedframe ("sodding death trap – those curly bits'll have your eye out," James had predicted when he saw the thing), Sirius sat back on his haunches and squinted at the poster of Dai Llewellyn he'd pinned to his bedroom wall.

"It really ought to be the perfect present," he murmured, chewing his lip and idly tapping out the opening bars of 'That Rich Witch Broke My Second-Best Broom' against his thigh.

With a nod toward Llewellyn (Patron Saint of All Things Worth Doing), Sirius stood and headed for the kitchen, skilfully avoiding the detritus of his haphazard lifestyle along the way. Were it possible to go back in time and ask his eleven-year-old self what benefits he imagined he might accrue by devoting 67% of his Hogwarts years to Quidditch, it seemed unlikely he'd list an ability to avoid a precarious tower of unwashed mugs in the hallway of his flat, the sixty-four back issues of 'Flying with the Harpies' piled by the living room door, or a disturbingly animate potato in the kitchen.

But then eleven-year-olds didn't know much.

"Present," Sirius muttered to himself, coming to a halt in front of the kitchen sink, oblivious to the words 'wash me,' spelled out in mould on top of a water-filled saucepan. "Present, present, present." He moved aside the sock that was resting on top of the kettle, and thought about making tea. "Present," he said again, tapping his wand against his lips, unconsciously turning the ends of his hair violent orange, yellow, and fuchsia with every gentle thud.

Presents were generally easy things. Presents practically threw themselves off the shelves in Bannock and Whiting's Wizarding Chemist (the year of the Valentine's depilatory potions had been truly marvellous thing to behold), while it was hard to pass Doris Dearborn's Delightful Decorative Den of Doodads without feeling compelled to buy _someone_ a lace doily that could – with the aid of a simple charm – fart God Save the Queen on Sundays at 4pm.

 _Perfect_ Presents, on the other hand, were notoriously tricky buggers to track down. Sirius had heard tell of the young men who'd ventured into Fobsnob and Framingham's Foundation Garment Paradise, believing that the Perfect Present for their girlfriend might lurk within. Sadly, most stumbled out fifteen minutes later momentarily blind and bleeding from their fingernails. Hufflepuff House was known to have entire bardic epics (accompanied by dulcimer and mandolin) passed from generation to generation, lamenting their collective quest to find the perfect 'Congratulations on your Mid-Level Entry Position in the Department of Ministerial Arithmancy' gift. There were even fables about men and women who'd lost family members to a Perfect Present Quest, fables told to young children at the beginning of Advent, lest any should think it fair to demand a Singing Snitch or Chimera for Beginners from their parents at Christmas.

Rousing himself from his reverie, Sirius opened the fridge and deposited the kettle on the second shelf (next to the Marmite, the gouda, and the yogurt that always seemed to be smiling). Striding into the living room, he grabbed a handful of floo powder, stood in the fireplace and announced James' address to an audience of his couch, a broken kitchen chair, and two apples who appeared to be mating. Green flames whirled up around him, and in moments he was tumbling out of James' hearth, a little sooty but rather giddy from the trip.

James – sitting on the couch in a pair of boxer shorts, drinking tea as if his life depended on it – raised one eyebrow. "Did you get dressed in the dark again?" he asked hoarsely.

"Least I'm dressed, mate." Sirius slumped beside him, tiny puffs of dust and ash escaping from his jeans. "I'm on a Quest."

"Fuck me," James moaned pitifully. "It can't be Quest season already. Don't Quests normally start around June? It's March, you bastard, _March_."

"Exactly!" Sirius turned to sit sideways and pointed at James with an emphatic finger. "March! Season of Mists and Mellow . . . Puddleness, not to mention _birthdays_." He leaned in. "'Tis a Lupin Quest, James my lad. A Quest on Behalf of Birthday Lupins."

"Pfffft," managed James. "What's wrong with socks? Buy him socks and a new pen and that marmalade he's mad for."

"No," said Sirius firmly. "I mean to find the Perfect Present."

James almost choked on his tea. "Are you _mental_?" he asked incredulously. "You don't just go deciding to find Perfect Presents for blokes you've shared a bedroom with for seven years - blokes you could tell apart by the distance they can flick their snot; blokes whose toenail clippings you once made into a _Valentine_ for Severus bloody Snape!"

"Why not?" Sirius asked without interest, suddenly remembering he hadn't eaten breakfast and wondering if there was anything edible in James' flat.

"Because it's not done." James said emphatically. "Such blokes get socks and marmalade and sometimes an album by the Clash. Where is your loyalty? Start this madness and next thing I'll be out there, risking life and limb trying to find the Perfect bloody Present for _Peter_."

Sirius winced. "But Peter really _does_ like socks," he pointed out.

"And pickled eggs," sighed James.

"Not much imagination, that one."

"Not much, no."

There was silence for a moment. "Got any food?" Sirius asked.

James eyed him balefully. "You're going to do this aren't you?"

"Eat your food?" Sirius blinked. "Course."

"Fucktard. Try and find the Perfect Present. With only a day to go," said James.

"Ah. That." Sirius looked at his fingernails, wondering if they'd bleed before all this was done. "Yeah."

James muttered something under his breath about disgraced heirs, bludger bats, and a pair of granny knickers. "Fine," he said. "Go stuff your face with Weetabix. And then we'll plan."

~*~

In the end James' counsel proved unhelpful, since every experience he had in seeking a Perfect Present was inexorably tied to his wooing of Lily Evans. Sirius highly doubted that Amorous Doffledaises, an antique book of French poetry, or a basket full of obscure potions ingredients would make Remus smile the smile of one whose fondest wish had been granted. Besides, he wasn't looking to get Remus into bed.

Dampened in spirit, but with his stomach considerably fortified by all the breakfast cereal James' pantry could offer, Sirius wandered the length of the local Muggle High Street in the hopes of surprising Perfect Presents to reveal themselves. He spent some time examining a tube of fruit pastilles at the newsagent, and even longer browsing the racks of Muggle cold remedies at Boots. There was a greengrocer's to explore, and two charity shops to plunder for birthday swag (the latter providing nothing in the way of a Lupin gift, but supplying a rather nifty brown trilby that Sirius bought for 50p and wore for the rest of the day, in startling contrast to his Buzzcocks t-shirt). He lost hours to the siren's song of the hardware store, rummaging like a slightly dotty anthropologist through bins of nails, screws, hinges, and springs, squinting at the inner workings of door handles, and marvelling at the simple beauty of the common garden hose. It was there, arms thrust down an enormous pair of galoshes in the middle of the protective garments aisle, that he met Peter.

"Sirius." Peter nodded at him with the weirdly grave aplomb he'd adopted of late.

Sirius wriggled free of his galoshes and slapped Peter on the back. "Petey! What are you doing here?"

"Remus' birthday present," said Peter, gesturing with a pair of thick socks. "Good stuff here. They never wear out – least ways, not with a nice darning charm on the heel."

Sirius could feel his eyes glazing over and blinked three times to clear his thoughts. "Um." He licked his lips and stared at a pair of green Wellington boots. "I'm looking for something for him m'self. Any ideas?"

"More socks?" Peter asked. "They have these in blue too."

"I think you've got the socks covered," Sirius said. "Wouldn't want to horn in on your gift. Besides, I'm sort of looking for the Perfect Present."

"Oh fuck," Peter mumbled. "That's doom, that is."

"Thanks, mate."

"No, I'm serious. Didn't you hear about Esther Hofflepodge?"

"Hofflepodge?"

"Hofflepodge. She was a Hufflepuff."

"Stands to reason."

"Year below us. Anyway." Peter swallowed, breaking out into a light sweat in his eagerness to tell his story. "She went looking for the Perfect Present didn't she – set out three months in advance of her grandmas' birthday, thinking she'd have plenty of time. Even went to bloody _Glasgow_ in case there was something tartany she was supposed to unearth, or a nice string of cursing she could employ."

Sirius scratched his chin. "They are bloody world-class at swearing, those Glaswegians."

"And fights, but that's not the point. The point is she never found anything. Her hair fell out, she took to stuttering, and I heard she started smelling like apricot jam on weekends. And now she's in St Mungo's, drawing all over herself with purple felt-tip pen." Peter rocked back on his heels with the satisfaction of one whose point had been soundly made.

Sirius stared at him.

"Socks," said Peter, waving them absently.

"Right then."

"I'll let you alone to choose a pair, should I? My advice? The yellow ones are a bit much, but perhaps if you got them in the argyle?"

Sirius nodded warily. "I'd be a fool to get anything else?"

"Absolutely." Peter nodded and beamed, and eventually gestured toward the cash register. "Well. I should be off then. Buy these and pop home. See you down the pub tomorrow night?"

"Oh. Without a doubt." Sirius blinked rather dizzily as Peter pushed past him. "Socks." He considered the concept of yellow argyle with the sort of repulsion he usually reserved for cabbage and his mother. "It's not like he's a bloody golfer," he muttered, and dived back into the galoshes again.

~*~

By the afternoon of Remus' natal day, Sirius had stewed himself into a frenzy. After perusing the wares in Diagon, Tayste, Minim, and Ore Alley, he was still without a present of any kind, much less the Perfect Present his gut continued to insist he secure. Dire consequences seemed to be gathering in the wings of his imagination – dire consequences that insisted on being vague about the parts they planned to play in the ongoing drama of his life, but which were unquestionably diabolical if their insistence on humming Donna Summer tunes was anything to go by. By two in the afternoon, Sirius' desperation had reached such a level that he was driven to a last resort, one located somewhere fifteen miles or so beyond the lastish resorts he favoured. He owled Evans.

  


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**Fic: Advice for the Momentarily Blinded**   
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Evans return owl pushed Sirius into a pit of despair – or at least onto the couch, where he smushed his face into a cushion and drooled slightly, mourning his once furtive and now barren imagination. He watched an ant drag a half eaten crisp from under the settee, and idly noticed a pencil lying by the hearthrug.

He sat up straight, suddenly alight with purpose.

The summer of 1977 had been a red-letter year in Sirius life, marked as it was by his introduction to television. A bloke needed something to do while his best mate was slipping Lily Evans the tongue in her parents' Muggle kitchen, and watching television bludged the crap out of reading three-year-old Readers Digests' and studying the weave in the carpet. The television was a treasure trove of utterly baffling Muggle entertainment, where people were constantly trying to guess the picture behind door number three, or lurking in dark alleys while wearing trenchcoats, or cooking things involving spinach. Once, in an absorbing film shown on BBC2, a young man dressed in an inappropriate orange shirt had single-handedly solved a murder that had baffled everyone else, mostly by virtue (as far as Sirius could tell) of sitting at his dining-room table, licking a pencil, and making a list. Clearly there was some sort of unfathomable power unleashed by the act of licking pencils, and any man who wished to work out the perfect gift to bestow on Remus Lupin on his nineteenth birthday would be a mad fool to do anything else.

Sirius pounced upon the pencil, marvelled that it was still sharp, ploughed destructively through three rooms in search of a piece of parchment, and installed himself at the kitchen table, waiting for inspiration to strike.

The world slowly went dark while he waited for enlightenment.

~*~

The stairs that led to Remus' attic flat were dusty and impossibly narrow. Despite the haze of misery clouding his brain, Sirius couldn't help but think that Remus ought, through some ridiculous and mystical combination of newly aligned stars, cheese and pickle sandwiches, and plain good sense, have _known_ the Black arse was perched painfully upon the third tread from the top, and come the fuck home early to rescue him.

"Sirius?" Remus asked, standing on the landing, looking up toward Sirius' precarious perch. He didn't look like much of a rescuer, with his fringe plastered to his forehead and his coat damp with rain.

Sirius stared at him pitifully. "I _suck_ ," he said at last. "I suck, I suck, I suck, I _suck_."

"Well." Remus seemed to be thinking about smiling, but climbed the stairs and jammed himself beside Sirius without actually breaking into laughter. "Why's that then?"

"Because it's your _birthday_ ," Sirius sulked.

"Oh that," Remus offered, cheerfully. "I know March is sort of a dismal month for birthdays, but I rather think my parents had more to do with that than you."

"Very funny."

"Hmmmm, yes. I'm quite the wag."

"Heartless is what you are," Sirius mumbled. He shifted a little against the stair, and instantly regretted it as an attack of pins and needles attacked his arse. "I wanted to give you the Perfect Present!" he said at last.

"A – "

"Perfectpresent."

Remus frowned and chewed on his lip for a second. "Why?"

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Well." Sirius frowned and stared at the dingy beige wall just beyond Remus' head for a moment. "I don't exactly know."

"You don't have to give me a present at _all_ ," said Remus, elbowing him gently. "Much less a perfect one."

Sirius looked chagrined. "Peter got you socks."

"Peter _always_ gets me socks."

"Yeah, well . . . I just think you should get better than socks."

Remus eyed him speculatively. "You're not making much sense." He paused. "Even less than usual."

Sirius stared at his own knees, at the frayed edges of the hole he'd torn in his jeans when he'd tripped over a wild Niffler in Alice Longbottom's cellar, gallantly trying to find the goblinfyre she swore she'd stockpiled behind the furnace

It was, he realized, hopeless. There was no way for a bloke to put into words the nebulous things that had coalesced into his Perfect Present urges; nebulous things like . . . like feeling cheerful even when Remus talked about old maps all night, or waking up at 3am and wanting to floo to see him, or delighting in hearing him laugh until he snorted like an Erumpent with a sinus infection. How was a bloke supposed to explain the way his stomach had taken to doing vaguely ulcerish things whenever his thoughts drifted Remus-ward, or the sensation that ran up and down his arms when he saw Remus unexpectedly – a sensation that suggested he was either diseased or had tiny little tickling doxies trapped just underneath his skin. How - _how_ \- was a bloke supposed to explain that -

He looked up.

\- that Remus was really sort of nice to look at, in a crinkled-up, lop-sided sort of way that made him want to . . .

. . . kiss him.

"My words are all crap," he mumbled in a rush, and leaned forward without thinking, brushing his lips against Remus' and bumping their noses together in a terribly ungainly fashion. He pulled back, flushing as Remus stared at him with wide, darkening eyes.

"Sirius?" he murmured, and wet his lips with his tongue.

"Oh _fuck_ ," said Sirius as doxies and floo-calls and infectious noises of Erumpent joy ran together into a freakish turquoise pool of understanding. He twisted himself around before he could think things through and talk himself out of being certifiable – twisted himself around and kissed Remus Lupin the way Remus Lupin _ought_ to be kissed.

It was still a little awkward – the stairs hadn't become miraculously bigger, and they seemed to have at least three or four too many knees and elbows for the space they had. But the kiss hummed up through Sirius' blood, an intoxicating spill of bewilderment that filled the curve of his palms as he pressed them to the angles of Remus' jaw. There was happiness here, caught on Remus' slowly parting lips, happiness that Sirius could feel flare between his toes; at the back of his neck; in the fleeting downbeat of his racing pulse. He heard Remus sigh and something bright broke open inside him; he felt the hesitant touch of Remus' tongue and shivered, fighting to stay afloat.

When they finally broke apart, Sirius felt the sudden and prosaic urge to flee for the loo. "Crikey," he croaked as he pulled away.

Remus chewed his lip. "You . . ." He paused for so long a moment it made the doxies beneath Sirius' skin dance a tarantella of impatience. "You gave me the Perfect Present after all," he finished, flushing just a little at the sound of his words.

Sirius' mouth worked silently for a moment, then he managed to smile. "I did?" he asked.

"You did if you meant it."

"Remus, I – " Sirius swallowed. _You're the densest man alive,_ he thought to himself, as a sudden, horrifying fondness for Evans welled up in his chest. "I meant it," he said. "I just didn't know I did until I did, you know?"

Remus smiled with resigned amusement, kissing him softly as his fingers slipped inside the hole in Sirius' jeans. "Barnpot," he whispered, stroking the skin at Sirius' knee. "You're no new pair of socks. But I've a feeling I might be able to make do."


End file.
